Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about Poetry (and Everything Else), but Were Afraid to Ask.

February 19, 2013

The Fog

In the summer of 2012 the Dutch composer
Walter Hekster and his wife Alice van Leuvan Hekster who had been a fellow
classmate of my wife, Jean, and me at Meriden (CT) High School, class of 1952,
came to visit us in Dresden Mills, Maine, from their summer home in Higganum,
Connecticut. The four of us had a fine time, but Walter began to feel under the
weather.

After
their visit we were all supposed to attend our M.H.S. 60th class reunion, but
when Jean and I arrived we discovered that Walter had returned to The
Netherlands to see his doctors because he felt so ill.

I was in touch with Alice all fall, keeping tabs on
Walter -- for whom I had on several occasions been librettist, so we had been
expecting the sorry news of his passing. When I sent our condolences to Alice
she replied, “Oh Lew, thanks. You know how sick Walt was, and it just got
worse. I was with him and his Light just went out on New Years Eve.”

On Feb 8, 2013, Alice wrote, “We are going
to put Walt's ashes into the harbor here on Sunday the 17th (his wish)…. My
Auntie Margy is coming and I hope Marie [Delemarre Ho, also a classmate]. One
of my friends wrote a poem for the occasion, in Dutch. Could you?

Aunt
Margy and Marie came [from the U. S.] yesterday! I can't believe it. Marie and
Margy and I loved it [the epitaph]! It was a beautiful day and a swan came by
with signets and got covered with Walt's ash.

Alice

This is the playlet I wrote that was
first published in Polemic of Western
Reserve University (now Case-Western Reserve of Cleveland, OH) Vol. XI, No. 1,
Winter, 1966; it was used as the libretto for The Fog: Chamber Opera in One Act
commissioned by the Twents Conservatorium, Enschede, Holland; music by Walter
Hekster, libretto by Lewis Turco, Amsterdam: Donemus, 1987. Folio, paper.

THE
FOG: A CHAMBER OPERA IN ONE ACT

Dramatis
personae: Character A, Character B, and a Voice.

ACT
ONE

House
lights down, curtain up.

Scene.
A bare stage. Two figures are seen standing center stage. It is difficult to
make out whether the figures are male or female, for a thick mist rolls in from
both stage right and stage left. One of the figures speaks.

A.
Aren’t we supposed to get somewhere sometime? When are we going to get there?

B.
It’s too soon to tell. Not enough time has passed.

Voice
(it is big and resonant). You’re almost there now. Don’t give up. You’ve almost
made it.

A.
Who was that? What was that voice?

B.
That was some Being who watches over us. I think it was God.

A.
What kind of Being? It’s hard to make out any shape in this fog. I can heardly
see you, let alone a Voice. You look as though your body is made of shadow.

B.
It’s possible I’m not even here. You could be talking to yourself. On the other
hand, perhaps I’m here and you’re not. Maybe the mist is a mirror.

A.
I’ve thought of that. I’ve given that very thing a good deal of reflection as
we’ve been going along. But I can hear you breathing. Are you making this mist
with your breath? If so, I wish you’d cut it out so I can see God. I’d like to
find out who it is that’s talking to us.

B.
We’re talking to each other. There’s no one else on this road.

A.
But I think I heard a third voice. It came from somewhere overhead, I think.

B.
Pay no attention. Just keep going.

A.
The voice gave me courage. I’d like to hear it again.

B.
What’s wrong with my voice? Isn’t the sound I make enough for you?

A.
Yes.... No. That is, maybe. But what if it’s not your voice? What if it’s just
an echo?

B.
Then it’s an echo. It’s you giving yourself courage. So what? Isn’t that
enough?

A.
I don’t think so. I don’t want to be alone with myself in all this fog. It’s a
frightening thing to think that I have to make it on my own. I don’t think I
could do it.

A.
That’s the third thing. If I follow you, who am I following? And why should I
trust you any more than I trust myself? You might even be myself — we’ve been
all over that. I’d rather follow God. Maybe He can see better from up there — I
wish He’d speak again.

Voice.
Keep going. You’re almost there.

A.
There! There He is again. Let’s go.

B.
Lead the way. I’m right behind you.

A.
I thought I was following you! I thought you knew the way.

B.
You’re leading now. I didn’t hear Him.

A.
That’s very strange. His voice was clear as a bell.

B.
He must have been talking to you alone. You’re in charge now. Which way?

A.
The way we’re going must be right. He said we were almost there.

B.
We’ve been standing still. We haven’t moved an inch.

A.
That’s the fourth thing. The fog seems to be getting thicker. We’d better hold
hands so we don’t get lost. It would be death to be separated.

B.
Now I’m beginning to be frightened. Here’s my hand.

A.
Something solid at last! You’re not just my reflection after all.

B.
Perhaps not. Anything is possible.

A.
We still haven’t moved. Do you suppose we should try?

A
bell begins to ring offstage, and it continues to ring throughout the next
speech.

Voice.
I was wondering when you’d get here. How do you do? I’m very happy to meet you
both. This is it. This is the end in view. (The bell stops ringing.)

A.
Did you hear something just then? I thought I heard a bell ringing in the fog.

B.
It was the wind, I think. Perhaps the mist is lifting a little.

A.
Maybe so. Let’s wait here a little while and see if it clears up.

B.
All right. I can wait.

The
figures stand together in the fog. A bell-buoy begins ringing somewhere
offstage and continues to ring for a while after all stage lights fade out and
all house lights down and out. Curtain.

Comments

The Fog

In the summer of 2012 the Dutch composer
Walter Hekster and his wife Alice van Leuvan Hekster who had been a fellow
classmate of my wife, Jean, and me at Meriden (CT) High School, class of 1952,
came to visit us in Dresden Mills, Maine, from their summer home in Higganum,
Connecticut. The four of us had a fine time, but Walter began to feel under the
weather.

After
their visit we were all supposed to attend our M.H.S. 60th class reunion, but
when Jean and I arrived we discovered that Walter had returned to The
Netherlands to see his doctors because he felt so ill.

I was in touch with Alice all fall, keeping tabs on
Walter -- for whom I had on several occasions been librettist, so we had been
expecting the sorry news of his passing. When I sent our condolences to Alice
she replied, “Oh Lew, thanks. You know how sick Walt was, and it just got
worse. I was with him and his Light just went out on New Years Eve.”

On Feb 8, 2013, Alice wrote, “We are going
to put Walt's ashes into the harbor here on Sunday the 17th (his wish)…. My
Auntie Margy is coming and I hope Marie [Delemarre Ho, also a classmate]. One
of my friends wrote a poem for the occasion, in Dutch. Could you?

Aunt
Margy and Marie came [from the U. S.] yesterday! I can't believe it. Marie and
Margy and I loved it [the epitaph]! It was a beautiful day and a swan came by
with signets and got covered with Walt's ash.

Alice

This is the playlet I wrote that was
first published in Polemic of Western
Reserve University (now Case-Western Reserve of Cleveland, OH) Vol. XI, No. 1,
Winter, 1966; it was used as the libretto for The Fog: Chamber Opera in One Act
commissioned by the Twents Conservatorium, Enschede, Holland; music by Walter
Hekster, libretto by Lewis Turco, Amsterdam: Donemus, 1987. Folio, paper.

THE
FOG: A CHAMBER OPERA IN ONE ACT

Dramatis
personae: Character A, Character B, and a Voice.

ACT
ONE

House
lights down, curtain up.

Scene.
A bare stage. Two figures are seen standing center stage. It is difficult to
make out whether the figures are male or female, for a thick mist rolls in from
both stage right and stage left. One of the figures speaks.

A.
Aren’t we supposed to get somewhere sometime? When are we going to get there?

B.
It’s too soon to tell. Not enough time has passed.

Voice
(it is big and resonant). You’re almost there now. Don’t give up. You’ve almost
made it.

A.
Who was that? What was that voice?

B.
That was some Being who watches over us. I think it was God.

A.
What kind of Being? It’s hard to make out any shape in this fog. I can heardly
see you, let alone a Voice. You look as though your body is made of shadow.

B.
It’s possible I’m not even here. You could be talking to yourself. On the other
hand, perhaps I’m here and you’re not. Maybe the mist is a mirror.

A.
I’ve thought of that. I’ve given that very thing a good deal of reflection as
we’ve been going along. But I can hear you breathing. Are you making this mist
with your breath? If so, I wish you’d cut it out so I can see God. I’d like to
find out who it is that’s talking to us.

B.
We’re talking to each other. There’s no one else on this road.

A.
But I think I heard a third voice. It came from somewhere overhead, I think.

B.
Pay no attention. Just keep going.

A.
The voice gave me courage. I’d like to hear it again.

B.
What’s wrong with my voice? Isn’t the sound I make enough for you?

A.
Yes.... No. That is, maybe. But what if it’s not your voice? What if it’s just
an echo?

B.
Then it’s an echo. It’s you giving yourself courage. So what? Isn’t that
enough?

A.
I don’t think so. I don’t want to be alone with myself in all this fog. It’s a
frightening thing to think that I have to make it on my own. I don’t think I
could do it.

A.
That’s the third thing. If I follow you, who am I following? And why should I
trust you any more than I trust myself? You might even be myself — we’ve been
all over that. I’d rather follow God. Maybe He can see better from up there — I
wish He’d speak again.

Voice.
Keep going. You’re almost there.

A.
There! There He is again. Let’s go.

B.
Lead the way. I’m right behind you.

A.
I thought I was following you! I thought you knew the way.

B.
You’re leading now. I didn’t hear Him.

A.
That’s very strange. His voice was clear as a bell.

B.
He must have been talking to you alone. You’re in charge now. Which way?

A.
The way we’re going must be right. He said we were almost there.

B.
We’ve been standing still. We haven’t moved an inch.

A.
That’s the fourth thing. The fog seems to be getting thicker. We’d better hold
hands so we don’t get lost. It would be death to be separated.

B.
Now I’m beginning to be frightened. Here’s my hand.

A.
Something solid at last! You’re not just my reflection after all.

B.
Perhaps not. Anything is possible.

A.
We still haven’t moved. Do you suppose we should try?

A
bell begins to ring offstage, and it continues to ring throughout the next
speech.

Voice.
I was wondering when you’d get here. How do you do? I’m very happy to meet you
both. This is it. This is the end in view. (The bell stops ringing.)

A.
Did you hear something just then? I thought I heard a bell ringing in the fog.

B.
It was the wind, I think. Perhaps the mist is lifting a little.

A.
Maybe so. Let’s wait here a little while and see if it clears up.

B.
All right. I can wait.

The
figures stand together in the fog. A bell-buoy begins ringing somewhere
offstage and continues to ring for a while after all stage lights fade out and
all house lights down and out. Curtain.

The Virginia Quarterly Review"The Mutable Past," a memoir collected in FANTASEERS, A BOOK OF MEMORIES by Lewis Turco of growing up in the 1950s in Meriden, Connecticut, (Scotsdale AZ: Star Cloud Press, 2005).

The Tower JournalTwo short stories, "The Demon in the Tree" and "The Substitute Wife," in the spring 2009 issue of Tower Journal.

The Tower JournalMemoir, “Pookah, The Greatest Cat in the History of the World,” Spring-Summer 2010.

The Michigan Quarterly ReviewThis is the first terzanelle ever published, in "The Michigan Quarterly Review" in 1965. It has been gathered in THE COLLECTED LYRICS OF LEWIS TURCO/WESLI COURT, 1953-2004 (www.StarCloudPress.com).

The Gawain PoetAn essay on the putative medieval author of "Gawain and the Green Knight" in the summer 2010 issue of Per Contra.